


The Freedom Worm

by Bastetian



Category: Scarecrow Series - Matthew Reilly
Genre: Crack, Gen, marines goofing off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetian/pseuds/Bastetian
Summary: The night before Schofield's unit arrived at god-forsaken Wilkes Ice Station, they were ordinary young men and women like any others. Or, even the author has no clue what the hell this is other than solid crack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this post: http://queen-zoe-kissane.tumblr.com/post/85405277534/underutilizedromanticresource
> 
> Thanks to queen-zoe-kissane for the idea - you are entirely to blame :p

The first thing that hit them was the wind - brutal and deadly cold, it sliced at every inch of unprotected skin and whipped away their very breath before the exhaled steam could warm their exposed noses.

 “We’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere,” one of the marines complained, clutching at all his layers of Antarctic heavy-duty gear and stamping his feet, “No shelter in sight and they drop us in the middle of a goddamn blizzard. Why do they never find spaceships buried under luxury hotels in California, you tell me that?”

Behind a thick black balaclava and an ever present pair of wrap-around sunglasses, Lieutenant Shane Schofield hid a smirk. The speaker was Private First Class Robert ‘Rebound’ Simmons. At twenty-three, he didn’t quite hold the title for youngest member of the unit - that honour went to twenty-one year old Hollywood Todd but where Hollywood had already racked up four years as a United States Marine, Rebound had spent the best years of his life floating around, doing this and that, here and there, before deciding that the Marine Corp would be his proving ground. This would be his first major mission out with the team and Schofield had no doubts the young man would prove his mettle.  
He’d hand-picked him himself after all.

“That would be too easy,” Schofield said with a wry twist of the lips. “The faster we get that tent up, the faster we can get some shelter.”

His back was turned away from the assembled marines, their gear piled around them. Despite the ever present darkness of winter in the Antarctic, he surveyed the landscape. It was inhospitable sure, but even as far as his limited vision could tell, they were alone and the threat was still far away. And to top it off, they had a tent, something that could be vaguely described as food and several thermal layers between their skin and the unforgiving Antarctic winds.  
Some of Schofield’s men were young, very young, and some of them were older than he was but none of them knew fear and cold like he did.  
The jungles of Bosnia had taught him both.

“We’ve got to be gone by first light.”

The order issued, Schofield turned back to help lug the heavy duty, triple-reinforced, blizzard-proof, probably goddamn bullet proof tent into place - their temporary shelter for the night - when another of the marines stepped up to him. His face was largely covered and his physique hidden by bulky layers but Shane would have recognised his eyes anywhere.

“Will there even be a first light?” Staff Sergeant Buck Riley asked, voice gruff, as he pulled taut a thick string of rope.

Stamping the ground at their feet to pack it hard, Schofield leant down and threw all his body weight into driving the snow stakes into the icy ground, anchoring the line.  
“Should be,” he said, looking up at the older man, “if only for a few hours. We’ll cut as much distance off the trip as we can by hugging the coast but it’ll be dangerous with these winds so we’ll take all the help we can get from those few hours of light.”

It was an eleven hour trip as the crow flies from their location to Wilkes but they would have to take the long way round and once the brief daylight was gone, they’d have to slow their speed as well. Speed was of the essence but there wasn’t much point in a rescue if the rescue crew drove off a bloody cliff before they even got there. It was a fine balancing act. According to Schofield’s information, the sun would appear for just over three hours sometime around midday. Leave too late and they’d waste that precious time but leave too early and they’d miss it altogether. The numbers on his battered old wristwatch blinked an unearthly green at him in the dark, telling him it was still an indecent hour of the morning. If everything went to plan, the marines would arrive at Wilkes early tomorrow morning. The people there had waited days already for the Shreveport to get them here, they could hang on another twenty-four hours and his men and women might as well get a few good hours of sleep in before then.  
There was no telling what awaited them at that station.

With twelve marines on the job, the tent was up in no time. Grabbing his pack off the ground, Schofield ducked under the flap. The space, if a little sterile, was big enough for a full two rows of camp cots; their regulation army green the only splash of colour against the white walls, white floors and the relentless white of the snow and ice outside. They had travelled light and in a few short hours, they would leave most of it behind for the crew of the nearby McMurdo station to deal with, and travel even lighter; but for the moment, they had a roof over their heads, a stretch of canvas to sleep on and even Antarctic grade sleeping bags to curl into and Schofield wasn’t wasting a minute of it.

Within seconds it seemed, Buck Riley’s snores filled the tent. In the course of their friendship, Schofield had learned that his Staff Sergeant could sleep anywhere - give him five minutes and he’d get four minutes of good sleep out of it. Schofield let his own eyes drift shut to the reassuring sound.

Though the wraparound shades he had long ago learnt to sleep in gave him a slight advantage of added darkness, Schofield didn’t share Riley’s gift. He could only doze, slipping in and out of the state of readiness he had got himself into, achieving no real rest but constantly aware of his surroundings: the creak of the beds’ flimsy metal struts as marine physiques settled into them; the rustle of nylon sleeping bags against the canvas cots as they tossed and turned; trying to get comfortable; and the deep steady breaths that finally filled the room all drew his attention.

It was the deep breath before the plunge.

Too wound up to sleep and sure he wasn’t the only one lying awake, Schofield debated the merits of pulling out a pack of cards but he didn’t want to rob those who could of their sleep and invariably, card games between marines, even if it was as simple as snap, were not quiet affairs. Instead, he rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to rest even if his body wouldn’t.

On his left, he heard someone else roll over too; then a strange muffled thud as though they had rolled right off the bed and an honest to god giggle.

That made him crack open an eyelid, peering under the edge of his night-shades.

At the other end of the tent, in one of the beds closest to the doorway, Libby Gant was sitting up in bed, her blonde hair askew and one hand clamped over her mouth to stop any more laughter escaping.  
The source of her amusement was readily apparent.

Schofield’s ears hadn’t tricked him at all - there was indeed a marine still wrapped in the green cocoon of his sleeping bag lying on the floor beside his bed. As Shane watched, he inched his bum straight up in the air, using his knees to propel himself forward and back onto his belly, keeping his head buried in the fabric all the time. His strange shuffle around the room soon caught the attention of all the supposedly sleeping unit as the sleeping bag dragged over the tough fabric of the tent floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gant whispered theatrically at the crawling man inched closer and closer to the mouth of the tent.

A bulky form that belonged the second female member of Schofield’s team, Gena Newman, more affectionately known as Mother though not for any maternal qualities, sat up and added, “I was wondering that myself.”

Schofield trusted that Mother, a hard ass on the best of occasions, with a fully shaven head and a physique to rival any man in the room, could handle the situation if it was annoying her. As an enlisted man (or woman as the case may be) Mother could and would put a stop to it by sheer force of personality. Schofield, as the commanding and indeed only officer in the unit, had the authority to make them cut it out.  
Which was precisely why he didn’t use it.

He sat tight and watched through half lidded eyes as the marine on the floor lifted his head off of the floor to look at the two women - revealing himself to be Hollywood Todd and really, Shane should have picked that one - and hissed back absolutely seriously, “I’m a freedom worm.”

It took all of Schofield’s self-control not to laugh aloud.

Hollywood’s jaw was set firm but his eyes darted back and forth to the marines twitching with supressed laughter, knowing there was no possible way he could explain or justify that statement and no way in hell any of them would let him live it down.

By that point, most of them had given up all pretence of sleep.  
Except Buck Riley, who just kept on snoring.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any more absurd, another thud sounded. It was heavier this time as the nuggetty frame of Morgan T. Lee hid the floor, ensconced in his sleeping bag. Lee, callsign Montana, was a tough man of few words. He could silence a room with one intimidating glare. Rumour had it his blood flowed khaki and everyone agreed he had no sense of humour.

Silence filled the small space as all the giggles dropped away.

Montana looked Hollywood square in the eye and said deadpan, “Race you.”

To his credit, Hollywood only looked startled for a minute but that minute was all Montana needed. He pushed himself onto his knees and in a feat of extreme athleticism, managed to jump to his feet and remain upright with only the slippery fabric of the bag to grip the tent floor with.

“Hey! No fair,” Hollywood whined, scrambling to his feet.

Montana chuckled, honest to god chuckled, and looking back over his shoulder, shot Hollywood a feral grin. “You snooze, you lose, kid.”

Hollywood took a couple of leaping bounds in an attempt to catch up with Montana’s awkward half-shuffle, half-jump and that proved to be their undoing. The tent was barely five meters long all up and his attempt to cover half of it in one leap overstretched his already precarious balance and sent him tumbling towards the floor. His only satisfaction was that he clipped Montana’s legs on the way, bringing the other marine’s thick-set body crashing down on top of his own with a loud, “Fuck.”

They rolled to a tumbling, tangled, cursing mess of a halt right in front of Schofield’s bunk.

This time, he scoffed a quiet laugh and gave himself away.

Both marines, the older and the younger, looked up at him; their eyes widening as the realisation that their commanding officer had observed the whole shenanigans dawned on their faces.

Schofield’s eyebrow flicked up in amusement as he surveyed the pair of them.  
With the eyes of all his marines on him, barely hours before they rode out to face god only knows what, Schofield turned his covered eyes on all of them.

“That was pathetic,” he said and rolled off the bunk to show them exactly how sleeping bag races were done.


End file.
